


The Case of Watson the Younger

by MsLadySmith



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blackmail, Case Fic, Gen, Rosie Has Skills, Smuggling, Stealing State Secrets, Teenage Drama, Uncle Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-06 18:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17945009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsLadySmith/pseuds/MsLadySmith
Summary: Thank you for the inspiration, Milk_Chan and madsydva!Partially inspired by the music video for The Ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic at the Disco:  https://youtu.be/gOgpdp3lP8M





	The Case of Watson the Younger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madsydva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsydva/gifts), [Milk_Chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milk_Chan/gifts).



> Thank you for the inspiration, Milk_Chan and madsydva!
> 
> Partially inspired by the music video for The Ballad of Mona Lisa by Panic at the Disco: https://youtu.be/gOgpdp3lP8M

**_Prologue_ **

Marya looked at the mousy clerk sadly.  “Now Mr. Walters, I thought we had an understanding.  I was able to help you… now you need to help me.”

Leonard was visibly nervous.  “I did!  I got you the information you asked for.  Nearly got caught this time.”  He had only just unplugged the memory stick and stashed it in his pocket when his boss’ personal assistant walked into the room. 

“You need to be more careful, then – that is not my responsibility.”

“You said once I got you that, my debt would be paid!” Leonard tried not to let panic into his voice. 

“You have proven yourself far too useful, I’m afraid.  You will be hearing from me again soon.”  Marya started to turn back toward her desk.

Summoning a courage he didn’t know he had, Leonard exclaimed “No!  I’m done!  You can’t make me do anything anymore!”

She turned back to him slowly.  “I believe you will find you are wrong, Mr. Walters,” she hissed at him.  “Oh, so very wrong.”

* * *

**_Friday evening_ **

"Sherlock, I'm signed up for the Trauma & CriticalCare conference in Paris next week.  Do you think Rosie can stay with you?  I'll be leaving Sunday evening, and I'll be back Saturday night."

"She'll be at school during the day, right?"

"Well, no... it's a school holiday."

"Then why doesn't she go with you?"

"I will be in meetings and classes all day.  She'd be bored to death, sitting in the hotel all day.  If she's here, she'll be spending time with some of her friends.  You know - movies, sports... things that teenaged girls do.  If you don't want to, I can always ask Molly.  Mrs. Hudson is leaving for her sister's..."

"Nonsense, John.  I'm perfectly capable of managing a 14-year-old girl."

John chuckled.   _He has no idea what he's agreed to..._

* * *

**_Sunday afternoon_ **

"All right, Sherlock.  I will have my mobile, if something comes up.  You're really sure about this, are you?"

"Yes, John.  Go to your conference.  We will be fine."

Rosie was standing by the door, engrossed in something on her phone.  John reached over and pulled the headphones off his daughter.  "You're not going to give Uncle Sherlock a hard time, are you?"

"No, Daddy.  I'll behave."  Rosie put on her sweetest face.

John gave her a hug.  "I love you, Rosie," he said, kissing her forehead.  "I'll miss you."

"Love you, too Daddy.  Bring me a present from Paris!" Rosie smiled, slipping her headphones back on.

John looked at his friend.  "Good luck, mate," he clapped Sherlock on the shoulder with a grin and headed to the waiting cab.

Sherlock watched out the window as John's cab pulled away.  "Rosamund, why don't you take your bag upstairs - you can use your father's old room.  Mrs. Hudson set everything up for you there."

Rosie, deep in her music, did not respond.  Sherlock scowled, and walked over to her, pulling the headphones off.

"HEY!" She yelled.  She glared at him.

"I said, take your bag up to your father's old room.  Upstairs."

"HRMPH!"  The petulant teenager grabbed her belongings and stomped up the stairs.

"Do you prefer Chinese food or Indian?" Sherlock called after her.

"Chinese.  Chicken chow mein, please."  The bedroom door closed with a definitive click.

Sherlock smiled, and picked up his phone to place the order.

Dinner arrived an hour later.  "Rosamund!  Dinner!" Sherlock called up the stairs, taking the take-away boxes into the kitchen.

Rosie trotted down the stairs.  "Thanks, Uncle Sherlock!"  She grabbed a container of chicken chow mein and a fork and started to head back to the stairs.

"Um, no.  No food upstairs.  Eat here," Sherlock pointed at the kitchen table. 

Rosie rolled her eyes, but quietly sat in a chair at the table.

“So,” Sherlock began awkwardly.  “What sort of holiday gives you a week off in the middle of February?”

“I dunno.  Something about teacher work days or something.  I’m just happy to not have to go to school,” Rosie grinned.

“I can imagine.  You never were a fan of public education, as I recall.  Do you have any school assignments over the break?”

“Just a chemistry paper.  Chemistry is easy, though – it shouldn’t be too hard for me to do,” she answered, between bites.

“Should you have any questions, I would be happy to help, of course.  Chemistry is one of my strong suits, after all,” Sherlock smiled.

“Yeah, but I’m not going to be able to set anything on fire or blow anything up,” she pouted, her eyes sparkling impishly. 

Sherlock returned the look.  “I’m always willing to do that, assignment or not.  Just don’t tell your father.”

They laughed comfortably and finished their meals.

* * *

_**Monday morning** _

Sherlock was sitting in his chair in the living room, reading the morning paper, when Rosie came grumpily down the stairs.  “Good morning, Rosamund.”

“Did Daddy fill that mattress with rocks or something?”

Sherlock looked up at her.  “I assure you, he did not.  I would have noticed him bringing them in.”

“Well, that bed has to be the lumpiest thing ever.  I think it was worse than the last camping trip I went on!”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.  It’s just an unfamiliar environment.  You will get used to it.”

"I don't understand why I couldn't just stay home, sleep in my own bed, you know?  I'm 14 - I'm old enough."

"No, you're not.  Guidelines state that children under 16 should not be left alone overnight.  Let alone for an entire week."

"Hrmph," Rosie grumbled.  "It's not fair..."

Sherlock smiled to himself.   _Seems we have a theme for the week._

* * *

**_Monday afternoon_ **

"Uncle Sherlock, a bunch of my friends are meeting down at the arcade.  Can I go?" Rosie asked between bites of lunch.

"Didn't you tell me you had some homework during this vacation week?  Chemistry, was it?"

"Yeah, but I'll do it tomorrow.  Can I go?  PLEASE?"

Sherlock shrugged.  "OK, I suppose.  Be back by 7pm, please.  And take your phone with you."

"Definitely.  Thanks, Uncle Sherlock!"  Rosie jumped up excitedly, planting a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and flying out the door.

* * *

_**Monday evening** _

Rosie's phone rang after dinner.

"Hi, Daddy!  How's Paris?"

"I haven't been outside since I got to the hotel.  The conference is interesting, but it isn't leaving any time for sight-seeing.  How are you getting on?"

"Oh, fine.  We had Chinese for dinner last night and tried take-away from a new Thai restaurant tonight.  Does Uncle Sherlock know how to cook?"

John laughed.  "Not really.  Get used to a lot of take-away this week, unless you decide to cook.  And be careful opening the refrigerator - sometimes he keeps things in there that aren't strictly edible."

This time, Rosie laughed.  "Yeah, I remember you telling me about the head in the refrigerator."

"What's Uncle Sherlock been up to, anyway?"

"He's been playing violin a lot and pacing around the flat."

"Let me talk to him."

Rosie handed the phone to Sherlock, who'd just walked in from the kitchen.

"Hello, John.  How goes the conference?"

"Interesting, but busy… leaves little time for anything else."

"Sounds perfect to me."

John laughed.  "Yeah, I expect it would.  How are you doing with Rosie?"

"She appears to be a stereotypical teenager.  Nothing to worry about, though."

"She's always that way.  You get used to it," John sighed.  "Well, I better get some sleep.  The first session starts at 7:00am tomorrow.  Tell Rosie good night for me, Sherlock."

"I shall.  Good night, John."

* * *

**_Tuesday afternoon_ **

"Can I go to the movies with Margaret , Uncle Sherlock?" 

Sherlock looked up from his paper.  "You have to finish that chemistry assignment first."

"I have all week to do homework.  The movie is in an hour!  PLEASE..." Rosie whined, using her best 'puppy-dog eyes'.

"I'm not your father, Rosamund.  That look doesn't work on me," Sherlock said sternly.  "You told me yesterday that you would do it today, and I let you go out with your friends.  You're not putting it off again."  He returned to his paper.

"HRMPH!  It's not fair." Rosie sulked, stomping up the stairs, and closing the bedroom door a little harder than was strictly necessary.

Sherlock shook his head.    

She did not come downstairs for dinner.  Sherlock let her sulk in her room.

* * *

**_Tuesday night_ **

Rosie listened carefully.  The flat was silent –  _Uncle Sherlock must be asleep._ She slipped out of her bed and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  Grabbing her trainers, she quietly opened her bedroom window, and slipped out onto the fire escape.

"You do realize I was your age once, right?" Sherlock was leaning casually against the brick wall, next to the window.  Rosie jumped in surprise, and landed on her backside.

"Shite!" Rosie grumbled, and Sherlock scowled at her, directing her silently back into her room.  He followed through the window.

"Where were you going?"

Rosie looked at her feet.  "I… I was going to meet a friend at the movies - we were going to catch a midnight show, since you wouldn't let me go earlier."

Sherlock looked at her carefully.  The corner of his lips turned up.  "What's his name?"

Rosie blushed, and she sighed.  "Michael."

"You're too young to be dating, Rosamund."

"You sound like Daddy."

"He happens to be right."

Rosie flopped onto the bed, frustrated.  "It's just not fair."

Sherlock rubbed his temples.  "Am I going to have to sit in your room all night, or are you going to behave and stay here?"

"I'll stay," Rosie sulked.

Sherlock considered for a moment.  "Give me your phone."

"Why?" She glared. 

Sherlock put out his hand.  "The phone.  Now," he said forcefully.

Warily, she pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it to him.  "I'm not telling you the passcode."

“I know,” Sherlock chuckled.  He unlocked the phone, and went through her messages, finding the messages to this 'Michael'.  He typed another response.

**Sorry - can't make it tonight. RW**

"Can't have your boyfriend worrying that you haven't shown up.  He might show up here at the flat, and I might need to take more drastic measures."  He turned the phone off and slipped it into his pocket.

"Hey! I want my phone back!"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock replied coolly.  "Maybe."  He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

* * *

**_Late Wednesday morning_ **

A sullen Rosie stomped down the stairs and headed toward the kitchen, stopping short when she saw the two men sitting in the living room.  "Oh, sorry - I didn't know you had company, Uncle Sherlock.  Good morning, Detective Inspector."

"Good morning, Rosie.  Enjoying your week off school?"

Rosie grumbled and rolled her eyes and started rooting around the kitchen cupboards for breakfast.

Sherlock lowered his voice.  "How do parents put up with them, Lestrade?  I think I know why John's hair is turning gray..."

Lestrade chuckled, running his fingers through his own gray hair.  "What'd she do?  Wait... let me guess... she's fourteen, right?  Catch her sneaking out for a date?"

Sherlock looked surprised.  "Yes - how did you know?"

"My daughter was thirteen the first time she did that," Lestrade grinned, taking a sip of his coffee.  "Threatened to handcuff her to her bedframe."

"I was fifteen the first time I managed to sneak out without Mycroft catching me," Sherlock nodded. 

Lestrade looked surprised.  "You?  Sneaking out for a date?"

"Not a date.  Biology lab," Sherlock huffed.

Lestrade chuckled and shook his head.  "Some things never change..."

Rosie walked into the living room, crunching on a mouthful of cereal.  She set her bowl on Sherlock's desk, and looked at the files spread across the coffee table with interest.

"What's this?" She asked.

"Just getting your Uncle Sherlock's help on a case," Lestrade replied, starting to gather up the paperwork.

"A jewelry theft," Sherlock motioned for Lestrade to stop.  "Emerald necklace missing from Lady Whittenly's bedroom."  He spread out the pictures of the scene for Rosie to look at.

"I heard something about the Whittenlys on the telly last week.  Something about money troubles.  When did it go missing?" Rosie asked, her eyes never leaving the photos.

"She wore it at a dinner party last night, and took it off afterward.  This morning, it was gone.  Bedroom was locked from the inside, and she had no visitors."

Rosie looked closely at the picture from the dinner party showing Lady Whittenly wearing the necklace in question.  Sifting through the stack of photos, she found the insurance photo of the necklace. 

"That's not the same necklace," she pointed at the two pictures. 

Sherlock slowly smiled.  Lestrade just stared.

She looked at the two men.  "Well, it's not... the color of the stone is off, and the setting is slightly different."

"I told you this was a 3, Lestrade," Sherlock grinned, turning to the girl.  "So where is the necklace?"

"Well, I would guess since she was wearing the fake last night, the real one was gone before that.  How else could she afford that party dress?  Now she's filed the police report to be able to claim the insurance money, too."  Rosie looked up at Sherlock, who was beaming with something akin to pride.

"Excellent, Rosamund!" Sherlock clapped her firmly on the shoulder. 

Lestrade just shook his head.  "If I didn't know better, I'd say you two are blood-relations.  Since I know you're not, I'm going to say you're contagious, Sherlock," he laughed.

Lestrade’s mobile rang – it was Sally.  “Excuse me a minute,” he said, rising and walking toward the kitchen.

Sherlock turned to Rosie.  “You are very observant, Rosamund.  For the record, the Yard didn’t catch that the two necklaces were different.” 

Lestrade strode back into the living room, still on the phone.  "I'll be right there, Donovan.  Text me the address," Lestrade said, disconnecting the call and grabbing his coat.  "You coming, Sherlock?"

Sherlock looked torn.  "It’s a runaway case, Lestrade.  Boring.”

“How did you – never mind.  I don’t want to know how you know.  You don’t have anything else on.  You need to get out of the house, mate.”

“I can't leave Rosamund here alone..."

"Sure you can, Uncle Sherlock!” Rosie volunteered hopefully.  “I'm old enough – "

"Not a chance, dear Rosamund.  I guess you'll have to come along.  Get your coat."

Lestrade grinned.   _Yeah, I think he's met his match._

The three of them headed downstairs and climbed into Lestrade's car.

* * *

**_Wednesday afternoon_ **

Lestrade, Sherlock, and Rosie pulled up to the stately manor.  Thought it wasn’t strictly necessary, he had opted to travel with lights and sirens ablaze – partly to annoy Sherlock, but mostly because Rosie thought that was great fun.

Sally Donovan rolled her eyes when she saw Sherlock stride up to the crime tape.  "Good afternoon, Freak," she began, then her eyes widened when she saw Rosie behind him.  "Um... I don't think so," she moved to keep Rosie from following him. 

"It's OK, Donovan.  She's with us," Lestrade said, guiding Rosie under the tape after Sherlock.

Sally leaned closer to Lestrade.  "Isn't she a little young?"

"Rosamund Watson, this is Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, an old friend of mine," Sherlock said, formally introducing them.

"WATSON?  As in, John's daughter?" Sally asked.  Rosie nodded shyly.

"If you say so, boss..." Sally eyed Lestrade, as the trio headed up the stairs.

They walked into the living room to find Anderson examining the room.

"Why is HE here, Lestrade?" Sherlock sneered.

Anderson was about to respond with a witty retort, when he saw Rosie standing behind Lestrade, and bit his tongue.  "Who's she?" he asked Sherlock.

"Watson's daughter," came the response, as though it was perfectly normal to have a teenager on a crime scene.  Anderson looked at Lestrade and shrugged, going back to his work.

Sherlock looked around the room, assessing the situation.  “The missing person is Andrew Walters, the 16-year-old son of Leonard Walters,” Lestrade began, “last seen in the house about at approximately 7:00pm last night by the housekeeper – he’d gone to the kitchen to get something to eat.  When Leonard came home at 9:00pm, Andrew was gone.  Apparently, it’s not out of the ordinary for Andrew to take off to a friend’s house overnight without notice.  When he didn’t come home this morning, and calls to his friends didn’t find him, the housekeeper called MPD.”

“What did he get to eat?” Sherlock asked.

Lestrade thumbed through his notes. “Looks like he made a sandwich.  Nothing out of the ordinary, really.”

“Also a perfectly acceptable travel meal, if one were leaving,” Sherlock nodded.  “Security cameras?”

“A few.  We still have people looking through the video.  Probably be at least another hour for we have anything on that front.”

“He ate the sandwich at his desk, though.”

Rosie’s voice surprised them – she had been so quiet, they’d almost forgotten she was there, standing in the doorway of Andrew’s bedroom.  “He did?” answered Lestrade.

“Yeah.  There are bread crumbs on the floor under the chair,” she pointed.  Anderson scowled and mumbled under his breath, moving to collect the evidence. 

Sherlock, Rosie, and Lestrade all followed Anderson carefully into the room.  Sherlock looked at Rosie.  “Anything else, Rosamund?”

“Well, I don’t think he left… I think he was taken.”

Sherlock looked surprised.  “Why do you say that?  Everything seems to point to a runaway case.”

She turned to the desk, and pulled open a partially-open drawer.  There lay Andrew’s iPhone and its unplugged charger.  Sherlock quickly determined that the battery was completely drained. 

“A teenager isn’t going to leave his phone… and let it go dead.” Rosie explained.  She sniffed.  “What’s that smell?  It reminds me of the biology lab… ether?”

Sherlock moved to stand beside her and sniffed the air.  “Close… I would say chloroform, more likely.”  He reached into the trash bin with his gloved hand, pulling out a dark blue bandana, which still smelled faintly of the chemical.  “Yes, definitely chloroform.”  He looked up and gave Anderson a glare – accusing him of ineptitude without a word.

“After re-examining the evidence,” Sherlock said excitedly, “Miss Watson and I don’t think our victim left on his own two feet, Lestrade.”

Greg raised an eyebrow.  “Does John know you’ve replaced him?” He said with a grin.  Rosie blushed.

Sherlock chuckled.  “I could never replace John.  But young Rosamund has her specialties.” He smiled at her, her face turning even redder.

“So, Leonard - what kind of work does he do?”

Lestrade looked through his notes.  “He wasn’t very specific.  All we know he does office work, with occasional travel.  His late wife was involved with several charitable organizations before she passed away.”

“Her cause of death?”

“Cancer, I think he said.  I didn’t press – it seemed recent, though.”

Sherlock nodded.  “I think I need to have a conversation with Mr. Walters.”

Nodding toward the study down the hall, Lestrade lead Sherlock to where Leonard Walters waited, obviously anxious and distressed. 

Lestrade opened his notebook.  “So, what kind of work do you do again, Mr. Walters?”

“I’m a clerk, at a government office,” Leonard stammered.

“Hmmm.”  Sherlock rose and walked out of the room, turning his attention to his phone, leaving Lestrade in the room with Mr. Walters, dumbfounded.

**Mycroft, I need information. SH**

After a few minutes, his phone chirped in response.

**What now, brother mine?  Need Mummy’s recipe for Yorkshire Pudding?  MH**

**Very funny.  Leonard Walters.  SH**

**I will have Anthea do some research for you.  I am on my way to a meeting with the Prime Minister right now.  MH**

**Thank you, brother dear.  I will bake your favorite crumpets. SH**

**Dear God, no.  You’ll probably drug me.  Again.  MH**

Sherlock chuckled to himself.   _Ah, brotherly love…_

Lestrade came out of the study and grabbed Sherlock’s arm.  “What was that about, Sherlock?”

“It’s obvious that he works for MI6.  He wouldn’t be so evasive about telling you who he worked for, otherwise.  I’m putting my brother to good use.  Should have more answers by morning.” 

Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall – it was after 10pm.  Time had gotten away from them, as is so often the case when the Work is present.  He walked over to Rosie, who had dozed off on a couch in the living room and put his arm around her shoulders.  “Let’s get you home, Rosamund.  It’s late.”

* * *

_**Early Thursday morning** _

Sherlock woke to his phone ringing.  He fumbled for it and looked at the number with a groan.

“It’s only barely morning, Mycroft.  The sun hasn’t risen yet.  Normal people are sleeping.”

“Good morning to you, too, little brother.  I’m surprised to find you sleeping, then.”  He can barely keep the smirk out of his voice.

Sherlock huffed.  “Do you have the information I wanted?”

“Yes.”  Paper shuffled.  “Leonard Walters is one of our intelligence analysts.”

“As I suspected.  His supervisor has a higher security clearance?”

More paper shuffling.  “Of course.  Evelyn Belton works for me.”

“So it’s likely that Leonard can get information.  Thank you, brother dear.”

“Sherlock, what is – “ Mycroft began, only to be interrupted by the definitive ‘click’ of Sherlock disconnecting the call.   _Damn him._

**Sherlock, what is this about? MH**

Sherlock sighed.   _I suppose it’s my fault for hanging up on him._

**Working on a case for Lestrade.  Leonard’s son has been kidnapped.  SH**

**Interesting.  I will send a car to bring you to my office immediately.  MH**

**Send one of your lackeys, too.  I’ll not leave John’s daughter alone.  SH**

**Anthea will remain there in your absence.  MH**

* * *

_**Later Thursday morning** _

Mycroft sat at his desk, with a stern look on his face.  Sherlock sat across from him. 

“Your interference would be unwise,” Sherlock scowled.

“I think the sooner our mole tells us what is going on, the sooner we will find his son.  I assure you that my actions will not endanger the boy.”

Sherlock wasn’t going to agree with his brother, even if he was exactly right.  They needed to know what sort of information the analyst had become privy to, and what it was going to be used for. 

* * *

_**Thursday afternoon** _

“Please, Mr. Walters, take a seat.  I presume Evelyn told you why I needed to see you?” Mycroft sat at his desk, hands folded in front of him.  Anthea sat at his side, pen and paper at the ready. 

Leonard’s eyes flicked anxiously around the room.  “Ms. Belton just told me you needed to talk to me immediately, sir.”

“Well, then,” Mycroft cleared his throat, and opened a folder on his desk, reviewing it.  “I see you have been working on the Tlemcen situation.  What is the status of that?”

The clerk looked at the elder Holmes nervously.  “I… I’m not working on that case, sir.  Ms. Belton has me working on –“

“Then why do I have a record – right here in my hand – of you accessing files regarding Tlemcen just last week?” Mycroft’s voice raised just enough to make Leonard jump.  “What is it you are not telling us, Mr. Walters?”

Leonard blanched.

“To whom are you providing information, Mr. Walters?  I assure you, it will go much easier for you if you simply tell me.”

“I can’t do that, sir.” Leonard’s voice was hardly more than a whisper.  “She’ll –“

“You and your family will be protected, Mr. Walters.”  Mycroft sat back in his chair. “I’m not a total beast.” He smiled slightly.

“You don’t understand, sir.  When Olivia died a few months ago, I needed money… to give her a proper burial, you see.  Miss Udachniy offered to help me out.  I didn’t know –“

“As one of Her Majesty’s intelligence operatives, you  _should_  have known, Mr. Walters,” Mycroft said solemnly.  “Everything comes with a price.“

“I know that, now,” Leonard said shakily, combing his fingers through his hair. 

Closing the folder, Mycroft observed the clerk.  The clerk’s body language spoke volumes that his voice could not.  The man was terrified.

“It was only supposed to be names… names of those we suspected of being involved in a plot in Algeria.  I told her I wouldn’t help her anymore, but she –“ Leonard stammered.

“Appears to have kidnapped young Andrew, as I understand it.  Has she told you what she wants for his safe return?”

“I am to give her everything we’ve uncovered about the terror cell in Tlemcen, and their connections in Paris.”

“I see.  Did she say what she plans to do with that information?”

“No, sir.  I swear.”

Mycroft smiled.  “I believe you, Leonard. 

He nodded to Anthea, who rose to her feet and opened the office door, allowing two men in black suits to enter.  “When are you next meeting with Miss Udachniy?”

“I’m supposed to meet her at the café up the street before work tomorrow morning.”

“Fine.  I will have something for you to give her within the hour.  Now, if you would be so kind as to allow the gentlemen outside my office to escort you, you are officially on leave pending investigation…”

Leonard’s fear got the better of him, and he nearly shouted, “But sir!”

“Surely you understand, you are now a security liability.”

Leonard sullenly got to his feet and allowed himself to be escorted out.  Turning to Anthea, Mycroft said quietly, “Please make whatever arrangements are necessary for Mr. Walters’ needs.”  She nodded and left the room.

**Meet me in my office in one hour.  We have much to discuss. MH**

Sherlock was in the midst of his rendition of Bach’s Violin Partita No. 1 in B minor when he saw his phone light up on the desk across the room.  With an angry swipe, he dragged the bow across the strings and set the violin down gently to check the message waiting on the phone.  A smile spread across his face as he typed his reply.

**We will be arriving shortly. SH**

Mycroft looked at his brother’s response, momentarily puzzled.  He then set the phone aside and did a bit of research of his own.

“Rosamund, get your coat!” Sherlock called out, as he grabbed his Belstaff and strode toward the base of the stairs. 

Rosie appeared at the top of the stairs.  “Where are we going, Uncle Sherlock?”

“We have a case, remember?” He opened the door for her with a smile.  “My brother has some information for us.” Together they headed out the front door, where Sherlock hailed a taxi in record time, as always.

* * *

_**One Hour Later** _

Sherlock nodded to Anthea as he and Rosie walked into the outer office.  Anthea raised an eyebrow but did not move to stop them as Sherlock lead the way into his brother’s office.

Mycroft looked up from his computer.  “So nice of you to knock, Sherlock,” he said sharply, reining in his temper as he saw the young lady following behind his brother. 

“Rosamund, would you excuse us –“

“No, Mycroft.  She stays.  Her assistance on this case has been invaluable thus far.” Sherlock snapped, motioning for Rosie to take a seat in one of the chairs across from his brother.  She sat quietly and listened.

“Very well,” Mycroft frowned.  “It appears our Leonard Walters has gotten himself entangled with a Miss Marya Udachniy.  She was born in Toskovo, Russia, but currently resides here in London and is the proprietor of the Luck and Phillips Funeral Home.”

“I assume Walters encountered her in conjunction with his wife’s death then?”

“Indeed.  Seems he had monetary difficulties and Miss Udachniy, having made a few discreet inquiries, seized upon the opportunity to offer him an alternative method of payment.”

“State secrets.  Brilliant.”

“So it seems.  Having discovered Mr. Walters’ value to her, she is unwilling to give him up just yet.  He attempted to put an end to their arrangement, but –“

“She has taken his son as leverage.”  Sherlock interrupted.  “You do realize that in cases such as this, the hostage is rarely released unharmed.” 

Rosie, silent until now, gasped.

“I am aware of that, Sherlock.” Mycroft nodded.  “I did not remind Mr. Walters – no need to upset him any more than he is.”

* * *

_**Early Thursday evening** _

Sherlock sat in the living room, in his thinking pose.  “So what would be the securest way for Miss Udachniy to transport her stolen information to her contacts?” he mumbled to himself.

Rosie was working in the kitchen, making dinner for the two of them.  “Where does she work again?  A funeral home?”  Rosie asked.  “Kinda creepy, that.”

Sherlock nodded, barely paying attention to Rosie’s question.

“Daddy always says you forget to eat when you’re on a case, so I made us dinner – and you’re eating it,” Rosie said, with a look of determination as she walked into the living room, carrying two plates. 

“I am?”  Sherlock looked amused.

“Yes, you are.  You can’t very well keep an eye on me if you’re faint with hunger,” the teenager quipped, putting a modest plate of spaghetti in front of her uncle.  “It might not be as good as Angelo’s, but it’s edible.”

He considered a moment and started in on the meal.  “It’s actually quite good, Rosamund,” he said between bites.  “My compliments to the chef.”

After they finished eating, Rosie made quick work of the dishes and kitchen.  Standing in the kitchen doorway, she watched her uncle, again deep in thought.  “When you hear hoofbeats, think horses, not zebras.”

Sherlock looked at her blankly.

Rosie giggled.  “It’s something I’ve heard Daddy say.  It means to look for the simplest solution first.”

A broad grin spread across Sherlock’s face.  “You are brilliant, Rosamund!”  He jumped up from his seat, dialing Molly’s number. 

“Molly, can you come to Baker Street?  I need to run an errand with Lestrade…  thank you.  See you soon.”

Rosie frowned.  “Can’t I come along?”

“Unfortunately, no.  It would ruin the ruse.  Don’t worry – we won’t be gone long, and Ms. Hooper would probably love to watch one of your inane movies… what is the colloquial term…a ‘chick flick’?”  He was rewarded with an excellent demonstration of a teenaged eye roll.

Sherlock dialed Lestrade’s mobile number.  “Are you up for a bit of subterfuge, Lestrade?” A pause.  “It’s hardly late – just half five.”  Another pause.  “Fine, finish your meal and pick me up in 20 minutes.”

* * *

Lestrade pulled up in front of the funeral home and parked.  “What are we doing here, Sherlock?  I’m not doing anything illegal…”

Sherlock huffed.  “I wouldn’t ask you to.  But we need to get some information.  We can’t exactly walk in and ask when they will next be smuggling state secrets out of the country, now, can we?”

Lestrade shrugged.  “Yeah, I guess not.  A little undercover work it is, then.”

“Just play along.  Act sympathetic.  And don’t talk.”

Lestrade and Sherlock walked up to the front door of the funeral home and rang the bell.  A dark-haired young woman in a smart black suit answered the door.  “May I help you gentlemen?”  Sherlock detected a slight Russian accent, but it was apparent that the woman had been speaking English for a very long time.

Sherlock’s expression shifted slightly to show a bit of sadness.  “Yes… um… we need to arrange a funeral.  Should we… come back tomorrow?  I know it’s after regular business hours…”

“No, no.  Please, come in,” the young woman said, motioning them in and directing them to a small office on the left.  “Have a seat, Mr. ….”  She pulled out a sheaf of paperwork.

“Scott.  William Scott.”

“First, Mr. Scott, let me say I’m very sorry for your loss.  My name is Marya, and I am here to help you in any way I can.”

“Thank you.  It was all so… sudden.  He was going to go see his sister next week…”  Sherlock said.  Lestrade carefully schooled his expression – he couldn’t show how impressed he was at Sherlock’s story-telling skills.

“I see.  Are you… the next of kin?”

“Yes… I am.  His… partner.”  Lestrade swallowed hard, struggling to maintain a blank expression, as he noticed Sherlock actually managed a tear.   _I knew he was a great liar, but damn…_  

“He would have wanted to be buried next to his mother at Cimetière du Père Lachaise in Paris.”  Sherlock sighed for dramatic effect.  Lestrade tentatively patted his shoulder, looking concerned about his friend.  Or at least trying to.

“We can certainly coordinate that for you.”  The young woman made some notes.  “What was your partner’s name?”

“Captain Hamish Nelson.”

“Oh, was he military?”

“Yes.  Served honorably in Her Majesty’s service for 10 years, before a wound forced his retirement.”

She nodded.  “Full honors for the funeral, I expect?”

“Definitely.”

“Where are the remains presently?”

“St. Bartholomew’s.”

The quiet conversation continued, with Sherlock supplying a plethora of false information to the young woman, who completed the paperwork.  In fact, the only accurate information he provided was his mobile number, so she could contact him.  Lestrade was impressed at the fantastic story Sherlock had woven. 

Marya closed the file and rose.  “Of course, given the hour, I won’t be able to start on this until morning.  But rest assured, I will get to it as soon as possible tomorrow.”

“Of course.  I understand.  Thank you.”  Sherlock reached out and shook her hand.  She escorted the men to the front door and put her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  He turned to look at her, his face still a sad mask, and she handed him her business card. 

“Please, do not hesitate to call, if you need anything.”

Sherlock nodded, and they left the building.

Once they were back in the car, Lestrade looked at the detective.  “That was incredible, Sherlock.  But what in the hell did we just do?”

Sherlock’s lips curled.  “We gave them a vehicle to transport those state secrets they’ve been stealing.”

Lestrade stared blankly.  “Of course!  Everyone assumes things are on the up-and-up, when a military coffin is being transported.  Brilliant, Sherlock!”

“Of course it’s brilliant.  I thought of it,” Sherlock smirked.

Lestrade lightly punched Sherlock’s shoulder.  “You prat.”

They drove back to Baker Street.  The movie Molly had brought over,  _Mamma Mia!_ , was just ending when Lestrade dropped him off.  He took the stairs two at a time, and walked into the living room just as Molly pulled the DVD out of the player.  “Thank you again for coming by, Molly.”

“Not a problem, Sherlock.  Rosie really wanted to see this, and I knew you couldn’t stand it.  What, with all the singing…” she giggled.  Sherlock  _loathed_  musicals – almost as much as his brother did.  They both glanced at Rosie, who had fallen asleep on the couch.  Molly gently tucked a blanket over her.

“Oh, Molly… you may get a call from Luck and Phillips Funeral Home tomorrow, asking after a body.  Just tell them they can retrieve it tomorrow at the end of the day, please.”

“Um… ok… anything else I need to know about this?  Is some random funeral home employee going to show up at 4pm, expecting to take a body?”

“No, we should have accomplished our tasks well before that.”

“OK.  I should know better than to ask.”  Molly rolled her eyes.  Sherlock noted that her eye roll was markedly similar to Rosie’s.   _Perhaps it’s not a teenage trait, but a female one…_

* * *

 After the two men had left, Marya returned to her office, and pressed the intercom on her phone.  “Anton, Piotr.  Come to my office immediately.”  The two muscular men arrived in her office a few minutes later.

“We have a problem, gentlemen.  It seems our source of information has enlisted help.”

Anton and Piotr looked at each other, alarmed.  “He called the police?”

“No, he’s not that stupid.  He has hired Sherlock Holmes.”

The men looked at her blankly, clearly not recognizing the name.

Marya crossed her arms and shook her head slowly.  “He is a detective – an extremely talented one.”  She leaned back in her chair, her expression one of concern.  “My contacts in Paris will not be pleased.  I’m going to have to take care of this problem on my own.”

The men nodded.  “What about the boy, Miss Udachniy?”  Anton asked quietly.

“Once we have the last of the information from his father, we have no further use of him.”

The men looked at each other, smiled, and left the room.

* * *

_**Early Friday morning** _

Marya sipped her tea in the café down the street from Thames House when Leonard walked in the door.  Ordering his own cup of tea, he sat down at the table across from the woman.  “I have what you asked for.  Now let my son go,” he said in a low voice. 

“Patience, Leonard.  Your son will be freed once the information has been received by my contacts,” she lied smoothly. 

“But you promised!” Leonard squeaked.

“You will be getting a phone call in 10 minutes,” she smiled sweetly, getting to her feet.  “Be sure and take it.”

Leonard watched as the small woman left the café and got into a red sportscar parked up the road.  He stared at his tea, worried.

He nearly pounced on his phone when it rang at the appointed time.  “Andrew?” he whispered breathlessly.

“Dad, what’s going on?  Who are these people?”  The teenager asked, panic plain in his voice.

“Just… just do what they say, son.  Everything’s going to be fine, I promise.”

Andrew started to ask more questions when the phone was taken roughly away from him.  “That is enough, Mr. Walters,” came a deep male voice with a thick Russian accent.  “I’m sure you will see him soon.”  The call disconnected.  Leonard stared blankly at his phone, unsure what to do next.

He was so involved in the phone call that he did not see Mycroft three tables over, ostensibly reading a newspaper, but listening to every word that had transpired.

Returning to the office, Marya pulled out the file for Captain Nelson.  Finding the phone number she sought, she dialed ‘William Scott’.  “Good morning, Mr. Scott.  I have a few additional items I need your signature on.  All very standard.  Can you come by my office this afternoon, say 1pm?  Wonderful – I will see you then.” She rang off and let out a sigh.

“Such a mess, Mr. Walters.  Such a mess…” she shook her head.

* * *

_**Friday afternoon** _

Sherlock leaned toward the front seat to talk to Lestrade as he drove.  “We need to handle this delicately.  She asked me to come, so it might seem odd if you accompany me again.  I do ask, however, that you remain as near as possible without being spotted.” Sherlock said seriously. 

Lestrade nodded.  “I’ll be just outside, and backup is already here, too.”  Lestrade parked down the block from the funeral home, out of sight.  Dimmock pulled in behind him, with Smithson and two other officers with him. 

Sherlock turned toward Sally in the passenger seat.  “Donovan, I am leaving Rosamund with you.  Surely, that won’t be too difficult for you?”  Sally scowled. 

“Whatever, Freak.  Rosie and I will hang out while you two boys go have fun.”

“Rosamund, you’ll be safer here,” Sherlock admonished the teenager as he stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him. 

Sally looked at Rosie.  “He’s like that all the time, isn’t he?” she smiled weakly.  Rosie nodded, still pouting.

Sally’s phone rang.  “Sorry, kiddo – it’s my sister.  She’s going through a rough time with her ex, so I’ve got to take this call.  I’ll be right outside,” she said, opening the car door and stepping out to take the call.  She closed the door and leaned up against it, having a fairly animated conversation with the caller.

Rosie looked up, and seeing that Sally didn’t have eyes on her, carefully opened her car door and slipped out.  Keeping an eye on Sally, she managed to get behind the building Lestrade and Sherlock had entered unseen.

* * *

Sherlock knocked on the front door, and Marya answered.  “Please, do come in.  I just have some last-minute details to go over with you,” she motioned him inside.  Lestrade watched from behind cover as the door closed behind them.

“What additional information do you –“ Sherlock froze, feeling cold steel on his back. 

“Really, Mr. Holmes… you are a bit too recognizable for undercover work,” Marya pressed her revolver into his back.

Sherlock put his hands up slightly, keeping them still and visible.  “I suppose I am.”

“No matter.  Let’s walk to the viewing hall, please.  Slowly.”  She pressed him forward with the gun barrel, and he began walking.  She kept the barrel in contact with him with each step.

He surveyed the hall, with rows of chairs on each side and a large table at the front.  No apparent exits other than the one they just came through.  Without slowing, Marya caught the door with her heel, closing it behind them.

“It’s too bad Mr. Walters sought your assistance, Mr. Holmes.  I had such great plans for him.”

“I’m sorry, who?  I am afraid I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Udachniy.”

With a huff, she shoved hard with the revolver.  “Don’t play coy with me, Holmes,” she snarled as he stumbled a bit more than necessary, putting just enough space between him and the cold steel.

In a flash, he spun around, knocking her gun hand to the side and grabbing her wrist firmly.  A hard squeeze of the joint and she dropped the gun to the floor with a cry of pain.  Sherlock kicked the revolver away, sending it skittering under the row of chairs on the right side of the room. 

The door behind them flung open, and a burly man ran in.  “Miss Udachniy, is everything –“ Anton started to say, coming to an abrupt halt when Sherlock swung Marya in front of him, her arm twisted painfully behind her back and his free hand against her throat. 

“The gun, Anton!  Get the gun!” Marya nodded frantically toward where the revolver lay.  “He’s unarmed.”

Both Sherlock’s and Anton’s eyes landed on the revolver at the same time.  “I may be unarmed, madame, but I am far from defenseless.”  He roughly shoved her toward Anton, who immediately moved to catch the small woman.  Taking advantage of his opponent’s moment of distraction, Sherlock dove into the row of chairs for the gun, his hand curling around the wood grip. 

Jumping to his feet with his prize, Sherlock raised the gun and fired three times into the ceiling between them.  He then opened the revolver and let the remaining cartridges fall into his hand and put both the revolver and cartridges into his pockets.  As though on cue, the outside door burst open, and Lestrade came running into the room, with Dimmock close behind him.  “Sherlock?  I heard gunfire…”

“I’m fine, Lestrade.  These two are ready for you,” he motioned at Anton and Marya. 

“Right, then,” Lestrade took Marya’s arm and proceeded to cuff her hands behind her back.  Anton, however, was not as dumbstruck as she was, and pulled out of Dimmock’s grasp.  “PIOTR!” he shouted.  The younger man – who had been downstairs securing the papers and thumb drive in the paneling of the coffin as previously instructed – dashed up the stairs at the sound of gunfire and came running down the hallway toward his brother’s voice.

Dimmock turned just as Piotr entered the room, and with a swift movement, managed to trip him, laying him flat on the floor.  With a knee against his back, Dimmock grabbed his hands, cuffing him and giving him a quiet warning.

With Dimmock distracted, Anton decided to go after the cause of the problem – Sherlock Holmes.  Like a raging bull, he ran at the lanky detective, his first punch hitting its mark.  Sherlock faltered, slightly dazed, then quickly refocused on his opponent.  Anton swung again and missed as Sherlock ducked out of the way.  Sherlock swung at Anton’s jaw, pulling his punch just before contact, but not before Anton shifted his chin to dodge the blow, unwittingly leaving himself open for the next blow as Sherlock’s fist slammed into his Adam’s apple, stunning him.  He stumbled backward, hands to his throat, gasping for breath.

Hooking his foot around the brute’s ankle, Sherlock sent Anton sprawling across the floor.  “Lestrade – cuffs!” he called out, and the requested cuffs appeared in his hand.  He deftly cuffed Anton, still holding his throat, though breathing a little bit easier now.  “I’ve not caused you any permanent damage, this time.  I suggest you not do anything rash,” Sherlock said to him quietly as he got to his feet, letting Smithson take over as Dimmock and another officer lead Marya and Piotr away.

Lestrade looked at Sherlock.  “Quite a punch, that.  You all right?”

“Yes, I am fine.  Let’s see if we can find our hostage, shall we?”

“Right.  I’ll head downstairs.  You check the other viewing hall first.”

 

 

* * *

Rosie crept down the basement staircase and tried the door.  She was surprised to find it unlocked and opened it slowly.  The main room was almost completely dark, with only a small amount of moonlight streaming in through the casement windows on the other side of the room. 

She heard a shuffling behind the door on her left.  “Hello??” she said softly. 

“Who’s there?” came a timid voice.

“Andrew?  Is that you?” Rosie jiggled the doorknob – locked, of course.  She couldn’t possibly get that lucky twice.  At least the slide bolt moved smoothly.   _One down, one to go._

“Yeah.”

“My name is Rosie.  I’m going to try to get you out of here.  Can you open the door from your side?”

“No, bastard’s got me cuffed to the pipes in the back of the room.  I can’t reach the door.”

Rosie considered the doorknob.   _Just a standard push button lock._ She looked around the room, her eyes landing on a red tool chest in the far corner.  Quietly, she opened it, and found what she was looking for – a small screwdriver. 

“I’ll have you out in a minute, Andrew.”  She made quick work of the simple lock, and the door swung open.  She stepped into the room, and saw the young man curled up in the back corner.  She hurried over to him.  He looked up at her, relief apparent on his face.

“Thank God.  Now, what do we do about the handcuffs?”

Rosie smiled and pulled a hairpin from her hair.  In a matter of minutes, the handcuffs were open.

“Where did you learn that?” Andrew asked, rubbing his wrists.

Rosie shrugged.  “From my uncle.  Handcuffs are easy.”

She was helping Andrew to his feet, when they heard footsteps coming down the inside stairs.  They looked at each other, eyes wide. 

They saw the play of a torch on the stairs, and Rosie was relieved to hear Lestrade’s voice calling out.  “Andrew?  Are you down here?”

“He’s in here,” Rosie called out, grabbing Andrew by the arm and pulling him out of the utility closet where he’d been confined. 

“What the hell are you doing down here, Rosie?” Lestrade hissed.  “Sherlock’s going to kill me!” 

Another set of footsteps started down the stairs.  “Why am I going to kill you, Lestrade?” came Sherlock’s voice.  He froze halfway down the steps, his eyes meeting Rosie’s. 

“Lestrade, I think you need to have a word with Donovan.  Seems she has failed at the simple task she was given.”  Sherlock said coldly.  Reaching the bottom step, he reached over and turned on the basement lights, bringing everyone in the room into full view.

Rosie saw the bruise blooming on Sherlock’s cheek.  “What happened to you, Uncle Sherlock?”

He sniffed.  “Minor altercation.”

Lestrade snickered.  “’Minor’, he says.  Anton picked the wrong man for a fight.  Your uncle has one hell of a right hook.”

Rosie’s eyes widened.  “You’re BLEEDING, Uncle Sherlock!”

“A minor injury.  I’ll be fine.  You, however, have some serious explaining to do, young lady.”

Rosie started to respond, when Andrew stepped slightly in front of the girl and spoke up.  “Those creepy Russian guys had locked me in the utility closet, and Rosie found me and got the door unlocked.  And unlocked the handcuffs.”

Sherlock looked at Rosie, trying not to smile with pride.  “So you remembered how to open handcuffs without a key.”

Rosie blushed.  “Yeah, you were right – it was easy.”

“So… you must be Rosie’s uncle?” Andrew asked.

Sherlock extended his hand.  “Indeed.  Sherlock Holmes.  I presume, then, that you are Andrew Walters.”

“Yes, sir.  I’ve heard of you.  Glad to meet you!” Andrew shook the proffered hand firmly.

“Your father will be glad to hear you are safe and sound.”

Andrew turned to Rosie, and put his hands on her shoulders.  “Thank you, Rosie.”  He leaned in a gave her a kiss on the cheek, causing the girl to turn the most delightful shade of crimson.  Lestrade’s eyes widened, and the young man eyed Sherlock warily.  Sherlock smiled at him, and cleared his throat.  Andrew quickly stepped back.  “Sorry, sir,” he stammered.

Sherlock nodded.  “The good Detective Inspector will take you home now, Andrew.”

Lestrade led Andrew back up the stairs to the main level, almost colliding with a frantic Sally Donovan as they walked out the front door.  Before she could get a word out, he motioned to her for silence.  “Yes, Rosie is fine.  She rescued our kidnap victim here.  She is in the basement with Sherlock right now.  Now I suggest that you go back to my car and avoid Sherlock for at least a week.”

Sally blanched a bit, and turned on her heel, heading back to the car.

Andrew chuckled.  “Is he really that scary?”

“Yeah, Andrew.  He really is.  Best kind of family to have is the protective kind. And Sherlock Holmes is that, in spades.”

* * *

_**Saturday afternoon** _

"Thanks for the lift, mate," John nodded to Lestrade.  "You sure you don't want to come up for a cuppa?"

"Nah, I need to get back to the office.  Paperwork breeds on my desk, left unattended," Lestrade smiled.  "Let's get together next week for a pint?"

"Sounds like a plan."  John grabbed his suitcase out of the back seat and closed the car door.

He walked in the front door, and called up the stairs, "Hello!"

Rosie came flying down the stairs and tackled him with a big hug.  "Hi, Daddy!  We missed you!"

John recovered enough to look up the stairs, to see Sherlock standing at the top with a smile.  "Forgive me if my enthusiasm doesn't match Rosamund's, but yes, we are glad to see you home.  We weren’t expecting you for a few more hours, actually."

“The last session was cancelled, so I caught an earlier flight.  It’s good to be home,” he hugged Rosie tightly, and kissed her on the cheek.  "Let me hang up my coat, love, and I'll come upstairs."  Rosie bounced back up the stairs, and she and Sherlock both disappeared into the flat.

When he came upstairs, John found both Rosie and Sherlock in the kitchen.  Rosie was puttering around, making tea and sandwiches for lunch, while Sherlock was studiously reading the paper.  John sat across from him, when the front page of the paper caught his eye.

"What the hell..." John snatched the paper from Sherlock and examined the headline article.  It was about the Walters kidnapping, and included a large color photograph of Lestrade, Sherlock, and... Rosie.  "Sherlock!  You took my 14-year-old daughter to a crime scene?  Are you barking mad?"

"It was only a kidnapping, John. There was hardly any blood..." Sherlock sounded bored.  "Lestrade needed me, and I couldn't very well leave her here alone.  Besides, her assistance was vital in cracking the case."

John looked at Rosie.  “Really, now?”

“I know very little about teenage behavior, after all.  Her input was invaluable.”

“And Detective Inspector Lestrade was with us the whole time – ”  Rosie piped in.

“Mostly true,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Mostly?  Care to clarify that for me, you two?”

“Well,” Rosie began, “I might have slipped out of Lestrade’s car without DS Donovan seeing me…” she said quietly.

“And picked two locks like an expert…” Sherlock added.

“And Uncle Sherlock got in a fight…”

“And Rosamund took care of my injuries quite well, as you can see,” Sherlock motioned to the neat plaster on his cheek.

John scrubbed his face in frustration.  “I should know better than to leave you two unsupervised.”

“Nonsense, John,” Sherlock said, returning to his newspaper.  “While I prefer having Watson the Elder as my right hand, Watson the Younger is quite the asset to the Work as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Information about the punch Sherlock throws to incapacitate his opponent can be found here: http://www.baritsu.org


End file.
